White Noise

24

            I liked my bed.

Granted, the steel bed frame was old and creaky—I believe it was my mom's when she was a child. And the white sheets weren't anything to write home about.

But my quilt was a beautiful sea blue and incredibly soft. I remember unwrapping it Christmas morning, my mom and dad gasping with surprise as they watched me open Santa's gift. Blue was my favorite color. And I'd been expressing my undying need—you know, as an eleven-year-old—to have an all-blue room. And this quilt was my first step in the right direction.

My pillow came two years later. Dad picked me up from middle school—which was abnormal. Mom usually—AKA always—picked us up. But apparently, her boss Mr. Aldridge needed her to stay later than usual to help with some paperwork that had to get done by 5.

When Dad asked where Caroline was, and I told him she had choir practice and would need to be picked up in another two hours, he simply nodded. This was routine, but why would he know that.

Then, he smiled at me. "Well while we wait for her, want to go on an adventure, Katie?"

Thankfully, at that point, I was already so jaded with him that I wasn't disappointed when his adventure was a trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

Together, we looked at shower curtains, tablecloths, and kitchen mats. And he made sure, in true George Blanchard fashion, to criticize every item we encountered.

Until we reached a large display of pillows. I remember him asking me if I needed one.

"A... pillow?" Even at thirteen, I knew he was basically checked out when it came to parenting or involving himself in our lives anymore than he had to be. But, he knew I had a pillow... right? He can't be that clueless.

My face must've worn my concern, because he gave me a tired look with scolding eyes. "Yes, a new pillow. How long have you had yours?"

I shrugged. Is that something you're supposed to keep track of? "My pillow is fine, Dad."

He clicked his tongue. "Fine doesn't cut it. You have a good head on your shoulders, Katie. We need to make sure it has an equally good place to rest." He smiled at me, seemingly pleased with his joke. Or compliment? I wasn't quite sure.

So for the next thirty minutes I stood in my father's shadow as he scrutinized every single pillow on display, before settling for one on sale at $12.99.

The whole exchange was odd to me at the time. But that night, when I curled up in bed with my new pillow under my ear, I found myself sinking deeper into it. Wrapping my arms around it. Holding it close to me.

It was ours—just me and Dad. I couldn't remember the last time him and I shared anything. And I missed that feeling more than I was willing to admit.

You have a good head on your shoulders, Katie.

So that mediocre pillow became my most prized possession. Even when Dad left eight months ago, I couldn't bring myself to throw it out. I tried. I made it all the way to the trash bin outside, fisting that pillow as angry tears rolled down my face. I held it over the bin, but my grip wouldn't release. I begged it to. Why wasn't my own hand listening to me?

But I just couldn't. I couldn't bring myself to throw away the one thing I had left of him. So I sulked back to my room, hugging the pillow to my chest as I wept—no longer angry.

Just broken.

So, yeah. I liked my bed.

The thing was, this morning I wasn't in it.